


Infinity Symbol and a Feather

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gratuitous mentions of tattoos, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tattoos, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire tattoos things for a living. This includes Bahorel. He does other things with Bahorel, too. Bahorel is definitely not his boyfriend. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinity Symbol and a Feather

"You know you actually have to pay me for this one," Grantaire says, without looking up from the sketchbook in front of him. His hand is moving across the page, steady, creating bold lines that curve together.

Bahorel kicks his feet up on the chair, looking over at Grantaire's hunched-over form and grins suggestively. "I can't just pay you in sex and alcohol?"

"No," Grantaire laughs, "because I can't, and don't really want to, pay my landlord with blowjobs and alcohol."

Bahorel shrugs, as if to say _why not?_ and Grantaire throws a balled up piece of paper, a rejected sketch, at him. Bahorel ducks out of the way, and then moves to lean over, looking at the sketch. The thick black lines look good, curving into each other, and Bahorel feels the familiar buzz of excitement that comes only with the idea of a new tattoo going onto his skin. Grantaire has _talent_ , born natural and refined through an art degree ( _dropped to pursue tattooing when he quit drinking and his hand stopped shaking with cravings_ ).

"I've changed my mind," Bahorel says, pointing to a part of the design, "here, I want an infinity symbol, with a feather in it."

Grantaire's pencil stops moving, and he looks up at where Bahorel is leaning over his shoulder. The look on his face is unamused.

"I'm gonna kick you out my shop, and you can find a new fucking tattooist," Grantaire says, pointing the end of his pencil at Bahorel in a way that should be threatening if Bahorel was inclined to be threatened by anything. Bahorel props his hip against the table and shrugs.

"Then who will bring you customers for you to _fawn_ over?" he asks, looking unconcerned.

"He is not a customer. You can't tattoo marble," Grantaire says with a laugh, “and I don't fucking fawn over him, Jesus Christ. He came in _once_ with Jehan and tried to tell me how to do my job, I'm more likely to punch him than fuck him."

Grantaire had never been more angry then when that fucking young smart-mouth asshole had come into his shop. He'd sat next to his boyfriend, holding his hand and offered Grantaire _advice_ on his _technique_ as he was tattooing roses on Jehan's side. Grantaire had struggled not to stab him in the eye with his gun.

There's only three people that Grantaire willingly takes shit from. Bahorel, luckily, is one of them. So when he casually says "Why don't you just tattoo 'Enjolras' on your heart?"

Grantaire doesn't threaten him with anything. He moves, fast, and ( _people forget he's fast, forget until he's got them pinned to a wall and bringing a knee up into their ribcage)_ hooks a hand under Bahorel's knee, pulling it out and _shoving_ with his weight behind his shoulder.

They've done this before, though. The sketch and pencil forgotten, Bahorel catches Grantaire under the arm and pulls as he goes down. It's speed versus weight and Grantaire hits the ground first, on his stomach. Bahorel's knee bracket his thighs, and he has Grantaire's arm pinned behind his back.

"I can do it for you, if you're not capable," he says, low and promising.

"Fuck you, I'm not letting you touch my gun," Grantaire says, and they both know the conversation isn't about tattooing anymore.

Grantaire's hips move in attempt to dislodge Bahorel, but he's all weight and Grantaire isn't going anywhere, he's not even flipping over. So he curls his hand and moves again, _rolling_. He looks over his shoulder, grins cat-like and presses back. He hears the catch in Bahorel's breath.

The shop has been closed for hours, it's dark outside and the lights inside are dimmed. Bahorel is moving back, pulling Grantaire up to his knees and Grantaire is pushing back his hair, from where curls have fallen loose from the tie holding them.

His hands sweep down Bahorel's back and curl around the hem of his shirt, pulling upwards with urgency. They're not ones for kissing, so instead Grantaire latches his mouth onto a collarbone and bites down, feeling muscles twitch beneath his tongue. Bahorel's hands are pushing his shirt up, exposing lines of colour and sweeping black, exposing the lyrics on his hipbone, then the blackwork piece along his entire side and finally the date on his chest that marks a decision two years ago.

"Here?" Bahorel growls, the same fire as when he's in a bar fight, the same tone when someone starts on Grantaire and he says _you fuck with him you fuck with me._

"Fuck," Grantaire hisses as a nail catches on his nipple and he shoves at Bahorel's shoulder. "We're not having sex in my shop, I'd lose my fucking license."

This leaves them with two options. The first is to head back one of two apartments, hope to find it empty and collapse together into a bed. They’ve done that before. Grantaire’s is closer, only a walk away, but Bahorel lives alone.

Bahorel pulls Grantaire forward by his belt-loops, and Grantaire decides on option two.

“Alright, alright, office, _go_ ,” Grantaire says, words breathed out against Bahorel’s shoulder. He’s not moving though, too busy grazing his teeth and tracing his tongue over lines of ink that _he_ created. These are lines of his soul, where Bahorel said _go wild_ and played canvas while Grantaire poured himself into every inch skin he covered ( _Bahorel had repaid the favour once, holding the gun and asking what the hell he was supposed to do. Grantaire had said “I don’t fucking know, put your initials for all I care”. His favourite thing now is to come up with reasons for what the shaky B stands for)._

Bahorel pushes open the office door, fingers still curled around Grantaire’s belt, still pulling him along, determined. The door smacks off the opposite wall, and swings back over, with Bahorel kicking it shut behind them.

“Can you stop fucking destroying my shop?” Grantaire asks, but he doesn’t mind all that much because Bahorel is lifting him as if he weighs nothing and is setting him on top of the desk. He’s crushing sketches and invoices for needles, and Bahorel’s hands are in his hair and their hips are pressing _, rocking_ together.

“Do you have...?” Bahorel asks, forcing Grantaire’s head back to bite at his jaw.

“No, Christ, of course I don’t, why would I have lube in my office?” Grantaire responds, fingers flexing impatiently against Bahorel’s bicep.

“You’re a goddamn tattoo artist, we can use what you put on tattoos,” Bahorel counters, his hands sliding the pale length of Grantaire’s arms, jumping over the three bands to grab his wrists tightly. He brings them up, holding them together in one hand and using the other to push Grantaire flat against the desk.

“ _Fuck_ , no, we aren’t using fucking Neosporin as lube, you _asshole_ ,” Grantaire says as his hips rock up against the air, and he needs his jeans off, needs to feel skin and _friction_ and--

Everything is a fight, even this. It’s a fight as Bahorel hauls him up and off the desk, not touching except for where his hands meet wrists. It’s a fight as Grantaire uses Bahorel’s weight against him, pulling his legs up and planting his feet firmly into Bahorel’s thighs, sending them both off balance again. Grantaire’s hand smacks the ground, absorbing the shock as he falls back and he rolls through it, getting to his knees and sliding over to straddle Bahorel’s hips. He _rolls_ , back sweeping in a curve and they’re beyond teasing, because he does it again, firmer, hands pressing against Bahorel’s stomach.

“You just gonna do this?” Bahorel asks, though his hands are pressing bruises into Grantaire’s hips as he rocks.

“Just ‘cause we’re not fucking doesn’t mean I’m not gonna get off,” Grantaire grins as he’s moving, fluid, hair sticking around his face and breath coming in shorter and shorter bursts.

“At least get the fucking jeans off,” Bahorel growls, baring his teeth and Grantaire smirks, open mouthed, lips curling up in self-satisfaction. His hips still, for a second, long enough for Bahorel’s  fingers to get his jeans open and _shove_ , and there’s an awkward moment where Grantaire tries to get them off without moving too far. It doesn’t work, and they end up tangled around his ankles and _aren’t I fucking sexy?_ and they’re laughing. They keep laughing as Bahorel’s jeans come off as well, thrown aside and forgotten instantly.

Then Grantaire is back, hips sliding together, and the fight is gone. Bahorel gives in, his hands reach up and find skin, find hair and he’s pulling Grantaire down until their lips meet, messily. Grantaire’s making noises, panting into Bahorel’s mouth and moving. They’re past pretense, past fighting, past everything else except Bahorel reaching down and taking both of them in his hand, stroking, rocking up to meet Grantaire’s downward curves. Grantaire’s hands are planted on the floor, fingers curled into the carpet and his words gone, replaced by short gasps of breath.

“Bahorel,” Grantaire groans, eyes closing and arms shaking as he ruts forward. Bahorel growls in response, and he bucks up once, _twice,_ tightening his handand Grantaire hips are stuttering. He his head drops, his back bows, curves, arches and _Jesus he’s the most beautiful thing Bahorel has ever seen, coming apart on top of him--_

It only takes another twist of his wrist before he’s coming too, chest heaving as he spills between them, groaning Grantaire’s name between clenched teeth.

Grantaire pitches forward until he’s half draped over Bahorel’s body, dark curls spilling across tanned skin and Bahorel laughs, looking down at them. They’re a tangle of limbs, only separated by their different ink, and they’re a fucking mess.

“It’s alright,” Grantaire mumbles into the juncture of Bahorel’s shoulder, “that I do have stuff for.”

When their breath is caught, Grantaire rolls to his feet, holding out a hand for Bahorel to follow.

“You coming over to mine?” Bahorel asks, picking their jeans up and tossing Grantaire’s at him. “I’ll buy you Chinese.”

His voice is a promise of more; of dinner on the couch, of a few rounds of Black Ops, of a bed instead of the floor and of Grantaire unravelling, yelling his name and swearing until he’s hoarse _(It’s a promise of staying over, of a hot cup of coffee in the morning, of a shared shower, of everything they don’t say)._

Grantaire grins, an acceptance, and as he pulls his jeans on loosely, says, “you’re still fucking paying me.”


End file.
